


Out of Darkness

by 1221bookworm



Series: 50 Prompts (from Tumblr) [12]
Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 21:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12690342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1221bookworm/pseuds/1221bookworm
Summary: An introspective Thorne trying to reconcile with the darkness while he is blind.





	Out of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a (longer than I expected) introspective piece inside Thorne’s head while he’s blind. Inspired by the prompt “Tactile”, I wanted to practice describing something by feel. 
> 
> A/N2: I know a Third Era spaceship might rely more on touchscreen controls than all the buttons and knobs, so consider it poetic license to make the piece work. (I actually did google pictures of spaceship controls to get ideas!)
> 
> A/N3: I don’t own the Lunar Chronicles. Or Thorne. Or even any of his struggles. I just get to play with his thoughts while he suffers.

Thorne let out a loud sigh. He knew he’d been asleep, but he had no concept of how long he’d been out. He pushed the bandana off his eyes, opening them as wide as he could, searching the darkness for any sign of sight. A shape. A twinkle of light. He cursed into the blackness. Nothing. It was an abyss, a pit of emptiness that sucked at his soul. He closed his eyes again, blinking his eyelids rapidly, hoping the stimulation would activate the eye drops and return his vision. He counted to ten, opened one eye. Then the other. Nothing. 

He sat up in his bed, his hand out in front of him, checking for the post that supported the top bunk. Not finding it, he let his hand fall to his side, his fingers running over the rough coverlet. He found a loose thread, and it took a few tries for him to catch it between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged on it, hoping he could just pull it free. He could feel it moving through the blanket as he pulled higher. It stayed taught, though, and the distraction became a frustration as it didn’t provide the satisfaction of breaking off. He let the string fall back and amused himself for a few minutes searching the fabric for the thread, and tracing it to the end before tugging on it again. 

It must be the middle of the night, he mused as he grew bored and leaned his head against the wall behind him. The Rampion was running too quietly; there was no water running in the showers or in the galley, no boots pacing in the cargo bay. He surprised himself with the observations- he’d never paid attention to those details before. He chewed on his bottom lip. Apparently his brain had compensated by creating connections he’d never imagined when he had his sight. 

He couldn’t go back to sleep, even if everyone else was sleeping. He’d probably regret it later, and fall asleep in the middle of one of Cinder’s planning meetings and top it off by snoring. The possibility of embarrassment caused him to pause, and consider attempting to go back to sleep. 

He swung himself to his feet anyway. What he needed was a distraction, something to keep his mind off the nothingness. He pulled the bandana back into place over his eyes. At least then he could pretend the darkness was intentional. 

Long ago, he’d memorized the floor plans of the Rampion, so he knew approximately how many steps to the cabin door. His hand traced the wall next to the doorframe, searching for the finger pad. He sighed in relief as it accepted his prints. It felt as if his whole world had been flipped, so something going right helped him find his center. 

Navigating the cargo bay was more difficult then the cabin. He knew it’s exact dimensions, knew how many boxes of all different sizes it could hold. What he couldn’t predict was the exact layout of those boxes at any given time. He hoped Wolf and Cinder had been fighting today, so everything would be stacked around the outer edges. Unless Iko has gone searching through the crates for clothes. He paused at one end, took a deep breath for endurance, and slid his foot forward. 

He collapsed into the pilots seat an eternity later. Maybe it was the copilots seat. He wasn’t sure. Somewhere in the cargo bay he’d lost his sense of direction when he’d detoured around one too many crates and lost all sensation in both toes. 

He let the chair turn slowly in a circle, taking in the silence of being the only one awake. He turned toward the large window, wondering what the view might be. He was sure they were in deep space, the kind that had a darkness that was nearly as complete as the darkness he faced now. 

He leaned his arms against the control panel, trying to imagine the view he was missing. He could feel himself start to droop, but the thought of going back to bed was daunting. 

Yawning, he sat up straighter again. He stretched, feeling his shoulders pop from the tension of shuffling around blind. He settled back more comfortably into his seat, his hands reaching out automatically for the controls. 

He laid his hands over them, his heart filled with the indescribable ache to start flying. He caressed a button lovingly, pulling up his mental image of the control panel, trying to guess whether he was on the temperature control or the podship door release. He slid his fingers further down, finding the toggles for the various thrusters. The small switches were cool, smooth under his fingertips as he traced up one side of each and down the other. He ran his finger out past them, where the white printing would have told him what each toggle controlled, but now was just smooth plastic under his fingertips. He thought he could just make out some random letters, the paint raised ever so slightly from the surface, but he doubted his sense of touch could have heightened to that level. 

His fingers travelled over other controls; the large switch encased in a plastic coating that was squishy under his searching touch, the row of knobs, each lined with careful ridges to ensure an easy grip by even the sweatiest hands. He ran his fingernail up and down the grooves, thinking of counting how many were on each knob until he lost count, and just mindlessly slid along, listening to the subtle scratch. 

He finally came to the indicator knobs and dials along the top. He had begun to hope that his memory of the controls would enable him to fly again as his hands caressed their old friends. He was self taught, so his knowledge of the instruments was ingrained in him like his own name. 

But the indicator lights? How could he fly if he couldn’t see the light marking all systems checked? The gauge that told him how much fuel was available before they would need to recharge? 

He ran his fingers across these obstacles to his dream of flying. They felt unfamiliar to his touch - he’d never had need to touch them, except to occasionally point something out, or tap on one that wasn’t giving him the reading he wanted. 

He felt the plastic dome on the lights, protecting the tiny colored bulbs within. He felt where they ended, and the little catch in the casing so the bulbs could be changed when they burned out. He wondered what colors they were showing now. They should be green, but might be yellow or even orange to alert to some minor problem before it became major. 

His attention turned to the gauges, their needles protected by glass. This was smoother, with no seams to show where it joined the plastic of the rest of the controls. The glass was hard, unforgiving beneath his touch. It was meant to outlast everything but the harshest crash landing. He scrabbled at one, hoping to find some way to pry the glass away, so then his fingers could feel the location of the needle within. 

He even rapped his knuckles against the glass, the dull thunk telling him the glass was too thick to break with simple force. 

The frustration was too much. He punched his fist into the front of the control panel, misjudging the distance and slamming into it much harder than he had anticipated. He cursed at the stinging in his hand, first shaking it, then sticking each knuckle in his mouth to ease the throbbing. 

He pushed the bandana back down onto his neck. It wasn’t working as a distraction, and was only starting to make his eyes sweat. He rubbed at them; in his head, the voice of his mother and all his teachers telling him he’d ruin his eyesight by rubbing his eyes. They were right, I guess, he thought ironically as he blinked his eyes a few more times. 

There. The impression of color in front of his eyes. He spun the chair around, looking for something he could fixate in to gauge this new development. He could see the faintest hint of light near the door, the low level used at night to encourage sleep. He turned back towards the controls, seeking out hints of different colors on the dash. A green indicator light could be seen out of the corner of his eye, even if he couldn’t quite make it out when he tried to focus on it. 

Dr. Erland had warned it would be a slow process, and his eyesight would return gradually. It was maddening to think he was finally so close. If he’d had his sight, he might have done a jig right there in the middle of his ship in the middle of the night. For safety’s sake, he contented himself with a fist pump. 

Grinning and humming to himself, he gave the control panel a final, fond pat goodnight, and made his way back across the cargo bay and back to his cabin. Tonight, he would have happy dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> NaNoWriMo 2017 word count: 1,538


End file.
